The Inception of Ryan Smithers -- GiftFic
by ChequeRoot
Summary: Ryan Smithers has no reason to stay in Philadelphia. After his mother's death, he decides to follow Route 66 from Chicago to Santa Monica. A long drive to clear his head. By device or design, he meets Larry Burns and learns of the father he never knew; Waylon Smithers. Naturally, his travel plans change. - A gift for Gav-Imp featuring her OC, Ryan Smithers. Cover Art (c) Gav-Imp.
1. Chapter 1

**Standard Disclaimer.** I do not own the Simpsons, C. M. Burns, Waylon Smithers Sr, or any other characters from the Simpsons Universe This is a non-profit piece of fan fiction.

Ryan Smithers is (c) Gav-Imp of DeviantArt, and used with permission.

Cover art is also (c) Gav-Imp, technically used without permission, though hopefully she won't mind.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:** This story takes place in the same world of my Nuclear Tetralogy; and falls into the timeline after Supercritical Arrangement. It was a special request by a fantastic artist, Gav-Imp of DeviantArt who does some of the best Simpsons artwork you are apt to find._

 _Ryan Smithers is an OC of hers. I'd been thinking about getting permission to use him in the future, but she approached me first with a special request. Considering the stunning illustrations she'd given me, I could hardly say no. Here then is the inception, the beginning and introduction of Ryan Smithers into my world._

 _And thus, it begins..._

 _~ Muse_

* * *

The young man with black hair and soulful hazel eyes knew he'd come to the end of a chapter in his life. His childhood had officially fled, without fanfare or drama. All that remained was him. And soon, he would be on his way as well.

Ryan threw the last of his meager belongings into his backpack and took a last look around the empty apartment. He knew he wouldn't be coming back. Everything was gone except a few appliances and a mattress on the floor that he'd been using as a bed after he sold the last of the furniture. There was nothing left to make him stay.

Once, this place had been home, decorated in that fetchingly cute rural way that some people become enamored of. Ryan used to hate the "country kitchen" feel, the cookie jar shaped like a barn, and the pot holders with roosters on them. Now, standing in the barren room, he found he missed all of it.

There'd be no more homemade waffles in the morning, his mother laughing with her faint southern accent as she poured the syrup. His mother smiling, her black hair done up, wearing a beautiful house dress, and that locket necklace she rarely took off. She always seemed so out of place in Philadelphia, her subtle southern-belle ways contrasting most starkly with the gritty urban culture of the city.

Those days were gone now. Just memories, and a few crumbs he hadn't bothered to sweep out of the lonely corners.

Once, this small two bedroom apartment had been their home. Now, it was just an empty shell. A rookery for shadows. None of those memories mattered now. His mother was dead.

She'd been laid to rest in Oakland Cemetery earlier less than a week ago. She used to remark how beautiful it looked from the window of her hospital room. Her friends from Church circled through, giving Ryan their "deepest sympathies and condolences," but no one had actually offered to help. No one had suggested a place to stay, or invited him into their home. Not that Ryan would've accepted, of course. He was too independent to be a pity-case, but still the _offer_ would've been nice.

Oakland Cemetery was just beyond the Eastern Regional Medical Center. The place where the cancer center was located. The place where his mother had died, victim to a silent killer. His mother thought she'd just been feeling run down lately, with the school year drawing to a close and the chaos that normally ensued. Then came the back pain and nausea. Less than a week later, the whites of her eyes turned yellow and they both knew it was something far more serious than a simple stomach flu.

Lydia went to her doctor, and after a battery of tests the diagnoses came back. Pancreatic cancer. Advanced stages. Ryan, sitting beside her, asked about treatment options, about chemotherapy. The doctor explained it was already too late for any chance of those. The cancer had spread. _The most we can do for you, Miss Smithers, is keep you comfortable_.

Everything had happened so quickly after that. Ryan always thought a cancer diagnosis meant someone had months, even years to live. Less than five weeks after her diagnosis, his mother was dead. Ryan blamed himself. He felt like somehow he should've known. Maybe, if he'd pressed his mother to go to the doctor sooner, maybe if they had decided to try chemotherapy. The young man's mind swam with "what ifs."

The doctor had tried to console Ryan through the process. He explained that there is no test for pancreatic cancer. The oncologist confessed that even if she had gone in sooner, there was a chance a general practice doctor wouldn't have caught it until it was too late. He tried to comfort Ryan, saying the young man did all he could for his mother.

Ryan, more a boy than a man still, not even old enough to buy alcohol, tried to listen. Six weeks between diagnoses and burial. The whole of his mother's life was now summed up by a rectangle of granite to mark her grave.

The burial and funeral had been expensive. So had the hospital costs. Ryan's mother had health insurance, life insurance, but it hadn't been enough. Item by item, Ryan sold everything he could on the internet. The last thing he sold was his laptop. It wasn't much, but it kept his head above water; covered the rent till his mother passed and he decided to leave. Then there had been the brutal argument Ryan had with his landlord about getting his deposit back. Finally, in the end, Ryan won out. It might've had something to do with the fact he had a tire-iron in his hand, or that might've been coincidence. Either way, Ryan left with his deposit in cash, and his last month's rent returned.

It gave him the extra money he needed for his trip.

Ryan didn't have plans on where he was going. He just knew he couldn't stay here. There was nothing left in Philly for him, and the longer he stayed, the worse he knew he'd feel.

He'd always wanted to travel Route 66, the fabled Mother Road that cut through America like a dream. When he turned sixteen, he bought a motorcycle instead of a car. A simple road bike, nothing too fancy. The following summer, he'd saved up enough to buy a small trailer as well. He hadn't expected to leave and never come back. He'd initially planned to take a summer and explore the roads when he was older.

Now, there was nothing holding him back. The sooner he left the hollow apartment, the better he'd feel.

Ryan grabbed the last few items he had and slung his backpack on to his shoulders. He unfolded his map and looked at it, memorizing the route. It was quite straight forward. Leave Philadelphia, head north west, connect with Interstate 90, I-90, then follow that to Chicago.

Chicago was the start of Route 66.

The journey Ryan had drawn in red on his map was one way. He'd drive to Santa Monica, California. He'd stand on the edge of the pier that Route 66 ended into, and there, toes to the Pacific ocean he'd… well, Ryan didn't know what he'd do next. _Die, most likely_ , he thought with an oddly morbid laugh. Was that what he really wanted to do? Die?

Ryan didn't think so.

He enjoyed the feeling of being alive.

Ryan tended to take a rather philosophical approach to life. Tried to anyhow. Sometimes life and death… the really seemed like the same thing, just backwards, when one thought about it.

He grabbed two packs of Oreo cookies out of the cupboard, the last thing he wanted, and left his apartment for the last time. He locked the door behind him, and slid the key into the landlord's mailbox downstairs. It was time to leave. He had one last stop on his way out of town, to visit his friend Mitty and pick up one critical item. He tossed the Oreos and his canteen into the saddle bags of his Indian motorcycle, adjusted his helmet, and headed out.

* * *

Mitty tended to keep his activities on the less-legal side of the law. He didn't draw attention to himself, but if anyone wanted a special favor on the streets, Mitty was the first person they saw. Mitty knew people. Mitty could get things.

Ryan had asked for a small favor before he left. After some negotiations, Mitty had agreed. It wasn't anything substantial. It was an identification card, a fake ID. All the information was largely the same as Ryan's driver's license: his name, address, the day he was born. All that changed was the year of his birth. Instead of nineteen, the fake ID listed him as twenty-two. It almost made him laugh. He'd be twenty in a few weeks, but there was something about a teenager traveling alone across country versus an adult on the same trip. He knew he'd raise fewer eyebrows as a guy in his twenties.

He pulled down an alley to Mitty's garage.

Mitty was expecting him.

A stout man of some undeterminable heritage stepped out of the garage, wiping his hands with a rag. Mitty did some basic engine repairs on the side. It provided pocket change; and a good alibi.

"You're for real leaving," Mitty observed, glancing over the trailer and the saddlebags on Ryan's motorcycle. "Can't say as I blame you, but I'm still surprised. You're a Philly kid. Won't you miss home?"

Ryan leaned forward on his bike and folded his hands across the dash. "No, not really. Didn't you hear about the shooting over to the north."

Mitty shrugged. "Heard about it, but it was no one I know or cared about. One of the two." He tossed the rag across his shoulder and pulled a greasy envelope out of his pocket. "You didn't come here to talk though. Got something for you, right here."

Ryan reached for the envelope, but Mitty jerked it back out of reach.

"Ah ah," Mitty said, shaking a warning finger. "Not till I see the cash."

"Fine," Ryan grumbled. He reached into his wallet, and pulled out a handful of twenty dollar bills, fifteen in all. He counted them out on the table next to Mitty. Mitty took them, recounted and grunted. "You know," he remarked as he stuffed the money in his pocket. "I was going to charge you three. But today, two sixty." He handed a pair of twenties and the envelope back to Ryan.

Ryan eyed the man skeptically. "Why…?" he began slowly, taking the envelope to inspect the ID, but not reaching for the money.

Mitty threw up his hands. "Why? Do I really need a reason? Okay, it's simple. Bereavement rate, what with your mom dying and all. Perhaps I need an excuse as to why I can't pay Savedro right now." Mitty shrugged. "You're leaving town, I'll tell him you stiffed me. You're not coming back so even if he decides to go looking for you no harm your way, eh? Or maybe I just like you, kid." Mitty spat into a nearby trashcan. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Now get going before I set the dogs on you."

Ryan walked the motorcycle in a half-circle, safer than turning around in Mitty's narrow driveway. "Always the charmer, Mitchel."

Mitty pointed a grubby finger at Ryan. "Hey, you don't get to call me that. Only my mother calls me that."

Ryan tilted his head flippantly. "Yeah? Well, as you said, I'm leaving; right? So no one has to know."

"Get out of here, you bastard," Mitty barked through a smile. "God forbid I see your ungrateful hide around here again. I won't wait for Savedro, I'll be coming for you myself."

Ryan flashed a toothy grin. He had known Mitty since they were in grade school together. Theirs was a complicated relationship. He'd hardy call Mitty a friend, definitely not a confidant, but the rough man knew him longer than anyone else. They'd helped one another out from time to time. Ryan realized he was going to miss Mitty.

He didn't say that, however. Instead, he fired up the bike and revved the engine loudly. "I'm not scared of you Mitty! If I ever come back just you try and get me." He dropped his helmet on, threw the bike into gear and roared down the ally. If he'd looked behind him in the side mirror, he would've seen Mitty give him a crisp salute. Mitty stood in the door of the garage, watching Ryan go.

Ryan saw none of that however. He was on the road, and not looking back.

* * *

The summer sun was hot against his back as he rode, following the main interstate I-76 out of Philadelphia. He was making good time, though he kept his eye on the fuel gauge. He hadn't been out into western Pennsylvania before. It was mostly forest and rolling hills and farms outside of the city. Eventually, he arrived at an interchange in Harrisburg, about a hundred miles west of Pennsylvania.

Ryan got off the interstate, and stopped at a truck stop gas station. He refueled his bike, and stretched his legs, thinking. His black vest was becoming unbearably hot in the relentless sun. Ryan took it off, and tucked it into one of his saddlebags.

He wore a sheer, white riding shirt, with blue cuffs and matching collar. A pull-over shirt, hot in the still air, but warm enough on the highway.

It felt good to stretch his legs, but Ryan was restless. Harrisburg was still far too close to home. He hopped back on his motorcycle and kept going. He was glad he'd made such an early start. Even after the hour and a half driving, it was only ten in the morning. The sun, while rising, was not yet directly overhead. It made him feel cooler.

Ryan followed his preplanned route, following the Susquehanna river along its eastern bank. Eventually, the highway cut across via a wide-arched bridge. Ryan slowed down as he crossed the water, glancing, visor up, at the water below.

The sunlight reflected up at him, a thousand tiny jewels winking along the grey green muddy river. When he'd been a boy, he'd often gone to play at the creek by his school. His mother, the school librarian, often didn't leave until after class hours. Ryan would come by the library, borrow a book, and find himself a spot to read. Much of his time was spent with his nose in a book.

As a young boy, he enjoyed the children's mysteries of _The Hardy Boys_ , and even _Nancy Drew_. As he got older, he became fascinated by tales of survival and morality. He spent many fond afternoons ranging in the urban excuse of a forest behind his school. It might've just been a few overgrown lots, but in Ryan's imagination it was an uncharted wilderness. Often, he pretended he was the character from a favorite book.

Gary Paulsen was one of his favorite authors. He remembered a book he read called _Hatchet_ that stood out in his mind. The plot seemed simple enough. A thirteen year old boy named Brian found himself stranded in the Canadian wilderness after a plane crash. He was the only survivor. Alone, he had to survive with nothing but a hatchet his mother had given him before he left.

The story always resonated with Ryan. It struck him that there were so many parallels with his own life.

Brian was the child of divorced parents. Brian lived with his mother; and he had to deal with the memories of his parents' bitter divorce. Even the name was similar.

Reading helped Ryan understand how he felt. It gave him an outlet and an escape at the same time. In some ways, Ryan reflected, he was not like Brian. It hadn't been his mother who had cheated, and he hadn't been born when his parents' divorced. From what his mother said though, it had been a messy, awful thing. She told Ryan his father had left her without warning, running into the arms of another.

When he'd asked his mother where his father lived, she told him west, and north, on the other side of the country. Initially, in his youth, Ryan wondered if his father didn't like him. When he got older, he realized his father probably didn't even know he existed. Ryan had been born in Philadelphia. "East, and north," as his mother would say.

Lydia Smithers had painted a very vivid, and unpleasant picture of his father in young Ryan's mind. Ryan tried not to remember the stories. The idea of anyone treating another person like that, much less his own mother, made him feel ill.

The hours and miles spooled away, and the sun rose higher. After a few hours, it was no longer chasing him. Soon, he would be chasing it. Pennsylvania was a deceptively long state to drive through. Aside from the occasional urban setting, the state was uninterrupted shades of green.

Eventually, at a small city named Bellefont, Ryan stopped once more for fuel and a walk. He left the switch-backing highway he'd travelled for the past few hours, and merged onto a three lane interstate that cut west like a knife. His next stop, aside from the occasional pit stop, would be Cleveland, Ohio.

By his calculations, he wouldn't be arriving until evening. It was, factoring in traffic, easily an eight hour drive from Philadelphia.

While the highway he'd previously been on was dotted with small towns and way stations, I-80 was a ruthless device of travel. Ryan began to wish that he'd stopped along the way to admire some of the scenery, except every time he slowed, some phantom urge bit at his heels, driving him forward.

Perhaps it was the ghostly memory of his mother. Maybe it was because he hadn't even allowed himself time to grieve. Whatever it was, Ryan wasn't ready to face it quite yet. He let it egg him onward, relentless, into the afternoon sun. It was as subtle as a gun to his spine. Small, yet unignorably significant.

The pressure at the back of his neck made him think of another book, one he'd actually packed. It was a play actually, a short one called _The Glass Menagerie_. One of his favorite stories ever. As he drove, visor down against the sun, he found himself replaying the scenes in his head. He knew the protagonist's closing speech by heart. He'd heard it playing over, and over in his head after his mother died. Perhaps an obsession, perhaps soothing. He wasn't even sure yet. The answer would come in time, he knew. He couldn't rush it. So for now, as he rode, he recited the lines, and let the words bring what solace they might.

"I didn't go to the moon, I went much further – for time is the longest distance between two places," he muttered softly.


	2. Chapter 2

All Ryan knew of Cleveland, Ohio was from watching reruns of the Drew Carey show he'd seen on TV. As he pulled in under the setting sun he was struck by how different it looked.

Starting about twenty five miles from the city, the bland farming landscape gave way to civilization once again. As he got closer into the city, he realized how worn down it looked, even in the fading light. Somehow, he'd expected something more flashy, modern. Tired as he was, he couldn't relax. He cut up north, leaving his familiar I-80, and connecting with a new transcontinental road, the tollway of Interstate 90.

Ryan knew I-90 ran the entire length of the country. It started in Boston, Massachusetts, followed from New York, out past Niagara Falls, and didn't stop until it reached Seattle, Washington. Out east, I-90 followed the shores of the Great Lakes, while I-80 followed an inland route. Once they got near Chicago however, I-80 cut sharply south and west. I-90 angled north.

Chicago, the start of the fabled Route 66; right off Michigan Avenue in the heart of the city. That was where, Ryan hoped, he would be able to take it easy. At the moment, he was clawing down the miles to make good time. When he hit Route 66, he planned to slow down, explore, _have_ a _good time_.

Cleveland didn't offer much in the way of cheap hotels along the interstate.

Ryan paused at a so-called "oasis," a travel plaza along the toll route. Ryan parked his bike at the far end of the parking lot and walked across the still-hot asphalt. Though the sun had already set behind the city, the black top radiated the heat it had absorbed all day with merciless intensity. Ryan felt the warmth even though his riding boots.

He was ever so glad for the air conditioned hub of the oasis.

If nothing else, the toll road offered great amenities. Food, gas, a convenience store, even a lounge and showers for truckers. Ryan ambled over to the coffee bar, and ordered a long-named "chocolate chip cookie-dough iced mochachino"… whatever that was. It sounded good. Apparently, it was a chilled coffee drink that tasted remarkably like a chocolate chip cookie. It also had a healthy amount of caffeine. Ryan looked at a map in the main hall for a few minutes, decided he'd hole up west of Cleveland in a place called Sandusky, then made his way to the dining area.

Ryan sipped his coffee drink and watched the people. It was getting on in the evening, travel was probably slowing down. Fortunately, he'd missed most of the rush hour traffic.

A mother was shepherding two children towards the chairs with their dinners: a salad for her, and two kids' meals. Their father was already waiting at the table with drinks and a burger.

Once upon a time, Ryan could spend all day sitting, watching people. Right now though, that dull ache at his heels was starting to act up. Time to go, time to hit the road. He wasn't tired. There were still miles to go. He glanced to the west as he saddled up. The wind had picked up, bringing with it a distinctive metallic scent. Rain. Somewhere to the west, clouds were gathering.

Ryan made sure his raincoat was near the top of his saddle bags, fueled up yet again, and set out.

* * *

Ryan rolled in to a Motel 6 outside of Sandusky just as the first drops of lazy, fat rain began to fall. Huge drops that seemed to move almost slowly to earth. He grabbed his raincoat, slipped it on, and snagged his backpack out of the small trailer. It contained his shaving kit, tooth brush, a change of socks and underwear for the next day.

His timing could not have been more perfect. Just as he stepped under the awning to the front door, the sky split open. Rain slammed into the pavement, as if a giant bucket had suddenly been upended. The sound was deafening, drowning out even the semi-trailers on the interstate. Sheets of rain hurled themselves east, driven it seemed by the same invisible force that pushed him west.

Ryan gave the desk clerk his ID, the fake one, and stared out the window while the rain came down.

"It's pouring tonight," the clerk observed, handing Ryan's ID back, and giving him a key card. Ryan thanked the man, his voice feeling oddly creaky from disuse. The hotel was comfortable, but simple. The price was right. Ryan was glad at least to have a bed for the night. Morning included a free continental breakfast. A bagel and a banana would easily suffice, but sausage and eggs would hit the spot.

Sausage and eggs. Ryan hadn't had those since his mother went in the hospital. He could cook, he was a good cook, but finding the time to sit down had been a challenge lately. Ryan's diet these past few weeks consisted mainly of fast food, and random canned goods he hadn't bothered to heat.

Ryan's room was on the top floor, facing west. The light from the highway provided more than enough illumination to see by. He set his back pack in a chair, his shaving kit in the bathroom. The rain had not abated. If anything, it had intensified. Streaks of lightning, white, and even some with a reddish tinge sliced the air like a razor; the sky crying out at each cracking bolt, as if in pain.

Ryan settled himself under the covers, lying so he could watch out the window.

 _For nowadays the world is lit by lightning_ , he thought to himself, watching the storm in the dark.

* * *

Ryan didn't remember falling asleep, nor could he recall any dreams. He woke up to the predawn western sky. As usual, he'd slept in just his underwear. He stripped down, checked the alarm clock beside the bed, and decided there was time for a brief shower before breakfast.

He gathered his meager belongings, tucked his dirty clothes into a bag, and stuck that in his backpack. Breakfast was a quick affair. There was no sausage, but bacon and eggs made up for it. It was barely seven in the morning. If he hurried, he could make it to Chicago by noon.

The rain that had so hammered the world last night had moved on, a distant memory. The only evidence came in the puddles, and the thickly humid air. Though the sun had barely been above the horizon, already it was getting hot.

Ryan borrowed a rag from housekeeping, and used it to dry the seat of his motorcycle as best he could. At least the water had stayed out of his saddle bags and trailer. The bike would dry once he hit highway speeds.

It would be a sticky day, the sort that could make one's skin and clothes cling together in most uncomfortable ways. Ryan glanced north, longingly towards the lake. Shortly, he'd be travelling along the Michigan border, and any chance of a cooling lake breeze would be lost until at least Michigan City… a city that was, ironically enough, located in Indiana.

With the rising sun once again at his heels, Ryan set off west.

Indiana looked much the same as western Ohio. Flat, with various fields alternating between soybeans and corn. Large sprinklers on wheels sat at various points in most of the fields, some of them on and spraying water in a fine mist. Ryan slowed down as he passed, wondering how they moved. The sprayers were on wheels. Were they dragged behind a tractor? Did they pivot around a central point? Ryan wasn't sure. They weren't like anything he'd ever seen before.

At one point, he passed an exit for Notre Dame college.

Beyond that though, and the occasional billboard advertising fireworks, Indiana was uneventful. He'd thought he'd be close to the lake when he passed Michigan City, but much to his disappointment, he was too far inland. Ryan pulled off at the next oasis and went inside to cool down. He tried to sit still, but he found it wasn't happening. The only peace he felt came from being on the road. He hoped when he arrived at Chicago, he might be able to relax.

As he regarded a map thoughtfully, he decided he would force himself to stay a night in Chicago before starting out on Route 66. He wasn't sure wher he'd stay, or what he'd do, but these past hours he'd been riding like a hunted man. It wasn't a pace he could ultimately sustain, he knew. And Chicago was the so-called Second City.

Though Ryan wanted nothing more than to feel the pavement of Route 66 beneath his tires, he felt a bit of excitement at the idea of exploring Chicago. He picked up a few brochures touting such places as the Magnificent Mile, and Navy Pier.

Chicago had some unique architecture. Ryan felt he'd be remiss in his traveling duties if he didn't take at least a few hours in the old city by the lake. He'd also never actually been up close and personal to any of the Great Lakes. He'd heard they were so large that from one side, you couldn't see the opposite shore. Like a giant, inland sea; but with fresh water.

Ryan wondered if it would be anything like Lake Champlain, in Vermont. One summer, he and his mother had gone and spent two weeks in Vermont, playing tourist and enjoying the rural life for a change. It was still one of Ryan's fondest memories. He sat on the shore of the lake, at their campground, skipping stones and watching the birds. For those two weeks, Ryan felt as if he were a character from one of his stories: exploring the true wilderness. All too soon, though, they had to return to civilization.

But those days were gone.

Ryan clenched his jaw as he rode. It was still sinking in. His mother was gone. There would be no more days like that. This wasn't a temporary thing. She was dead, and that would never change.

Ryan wondered, distantly, how much of this he still had yet to cope with. _If you stop moving, will you have to face your feelings?_ he asked himself. Ryan had a habit of asking himself questions. Also had a slightly peculiar habit of narrating his life, especially in the tone of the latest author he'd read from.

 _The young man fled west, attempting to outrun the feelings he knew would catch him in the end_ , he began; writing his own story as he rode.

He found himself wishing he'd bought a journal.

* * *

From Gary, Indiana west, the landscape changed, taking on a decidedly urban atmosphere. The road gashed through various residential neighborhoods and industrial parks, cutting mercilessly through both. The traffic increased, and Ryan was forced to slow his pace accordingly.

Near the Indiana border, the road nestled in beside a set of freight train tracks. He glanced over, watching an endless locomotive of tanker cars matching pace beside him. Ryan twisted the throttle, and pulled ahead, watching the train cars slowly falling behind.

Signs along the road marked a section called the Chicago Skyway. They also indicated conditions could become unexpectedly foggy, and "bridge ices before road." Steeply, the road rose, breaching like the back of some great whale above the concrete ground below. It arched over the river, bearing Ryan with it, then fell, rolling back to earth and reuniting with the train tracks beside. It was in that moment Ryan knew for certain he'd entered Illinois.

I-90 followed a northwesterly route a bit further before shrugging straight north, merging with an interstate new to him: I-94. Ryan found himself in one of seven northbound lanes. Across a concrete barrier, seven other lanes surged back the way he came: south.

Ahead, the skyline of Chicago loomed, growing closer with each passing minute.

Some people might've felt intimidated, surrounded on all quarters by cars and tractor trailers. Ryan found it oddly soothing. Here, at least, he was part of something. An ebbing, moving tide of humanity; everyone either on their way to, or from, seeing someone. In the middle of the tollway, Ryan felt a sense of unity: they were all a band of anonymous travelers, bonded on the highway.

Eventually, though, that comradery came to an end. Ryan's directions took him away from the comforting arm of I-90 that had cradled him for the last four hundred miles or so. As he took an exit to the right, to the east and lake side of I-90, he cast one last look over his shoulder. _Goodbye_ , he thought, an odd sense of nostalgia welling in his heart.

Then it was time to look forward again.

He followed the new road, the one he'd just met, due east, towards the lake. Eventually, it came to an end, tossing him away without remorse, and leaving him with two options: north or south.

Without hesitation, Ryan went North, into the city.

This new road knew itself as Lakeshore Drive. It welcomed him, pulling his motorcycle into the slow moving throng of cars and pedestrians. Lakeshore Drive, true to its name, held him up against the western shore of Lake Michigan, between the concrete pier and a beautiful stretch of park.

At a stop light, Ryan flicked the visor of his helmet up, savoring the sweet scent of untamed water. It wasn't briny, like the Atlantic ocean he'd met, nor was it savory like the rivers and marshes near Philadelphia. It was a scent altogether unique, and unmistakable.

He passed a massive and elaborate fountain on his left. At that moment he decided he would have to wander these parks before finding a spot to retire for the night.

Skyscrapers graced his left flank, lake and a marina to his right. Ryan continued a bit further. His destination was a place the maps called Navy Pier. It offered parking, not free of course. It seemed free parking was a thing of the past in Chicago. He crossed yet another river, this one spanned by a metal bridge that felt rather ancient, and finally turned east once again out over the lake, onto Navy Pier. He pulled into the motorcycle lot, and killed the engine.

Slowly, relishing the sensation, he removed his helmet, allowing the cool lake breeze to blow through his short hair. He adjusted his glasses, and stowed his helmet in his trailer. It was about noon, mid-day. He didn't have any plans.

The thought of exploring the promenade of Navy Pier didn't excite him. Ryan wanted to get down to that park, feel the grass beneath his feet, maybe sit down for a while and watch the sailboats bobbing in the bay. His legs felt stiff from the long ride. Walking felt strange. He was glad at least for the light weight shirt he wore. The sun was relentless. Still, by the lake, it was pleasant.

Ryan made sure his bike was secure, tucked his keys and wallet in his pocket, and headed along the foot patch back the way he'd recently drove. He wanted to see that fountain. Buckingham fountain his map said. It was a work of art: the towering water plumes easily thirty feet high, the green copper sculptures resplendent in the mist.

Ryan sometimes wondered if he was a contradiction. He loved the feeling of being in the wildernes, and yet as he strolled the avenues of a city, he felt alive. It was if each city was a living creature, a great beast with its own heart and lifeblood. Ryan could put his finger on that pulse, and move naturally with the city. He never felt nervous in the heart of a metropolis, never felt overwhelmed. He felt at home.

He watched the people passing around him, every one a living being with his or her own hopes, dreams and fears. Each life a story, waiting for someone to tell it to. From the man begging on the street, to the woman napping on the bench, or the businessman in his suit, each life was something special, unique. Ryan found a great and sublime delight in humanity. Cities could bring out the worst in people, it was said. He found the opposite, it tended to bring out the best. A sense of cultural identity and unity, tolerance for others and yet a respect of personal space. Familiar and novel, old and new. In the city, Ryan felt as if anything were possible. He was glad he'd decided to stay the night.

Through no great plans of his own, Ryan's feet took him the length of the park, down to the very steps of a planetarium at the far end, before winding their way back uptown. There was no rush, no hurry. He didn't bother to check his watch. In this midst of the urban hustle, Ryan Smithers was a man moving leisurely, and enjoying every minute of it.

Eventually, he found himself beside a shiny bean-shaped sculpture. It was metal, polished to a mirror gloss. Kids were laughing, making faces, their reflections warping like silly putty. Even adults got into the game. Ryan smiled, and stuck his tongue out. It was impossible not to laugh at the shape.

Deftly, he slipped through what looked like a passage underneath it. He'd expected the bean to be solid. Inside, it was hollow, the same mirror gloss bouncing images around. Ryan looked at his reflection in the curved ceiling. He stared into his own eyes, and made a face, wiggling his fingers beside his head. His reflection, his friend, imitated him. Ryan laughed aloud, realizing he didn't care what other people thought. The bean made it okay. It wasn't serious, wasn't meant to be.

Ryan crossed a serpentine bridge over the main road, and came to find himself suddenly walking alone in a somber place. Just as the bean had been playful, this place was serious.

People here moved slowly, talked quietly. No one was sharing a picnic or playing games. The mood was one of quiet reflection. It seemed peculiar, almost out of place with the rest of the park. Flowers, dozens if not hundreds of different types filled the long central pavilion.

Planters on pedestals, each with a bench nearby lined the paved walkway.

A plaque stood beneath a woven metal arch.

Curious, Ryan moved closer to read it.

 _Cancer Survivor's Garden_ , it began. _The garden was designed to be a celebration of live and give hope in the midst of a memorable garden setting. The contemplative garden design represents a metaphorical process of recognition and self-knowledge that is crucial to healing. The three main garden rooms represent the three main states of healing: acceptance, support, and celebration_.

Ryan felt as if the strength had suddenly gone out of his legs. As if all those hundreds of miles in less than two days had found him. Acceptance, yes. But support? Celebration? Ryan sat on a bench near the steps at the north end and picked at a chip of concrete.

"Really?" he muttered to no one in particular. "Like it's that easy?" He stared at a basket of flowers pensively, willing some sort of resolution to come to him. Some solace.

If God was listening, he didn't answer. Or, if he did, it was in the form of birdsong in the trees behind him.

Ryan sighed and folded his hands between his knees. He wanted to feel something. It was expected of him, he knew. He hadn't cried when his mother passed away. At her funeral, even as a pallbearer, his eyes remained dry.

If there were ever a place were tears would've been acceptable, he thought as he regarded the blooms, this would be it.

His nature, it seemed, would not cooperate.

Not a single drop came to his eye.

Ryan wiped his face with his hands. He felt numb. He wondered if he'd ever be able to feel normal again.


	3. Chapter 3

Two voices cut through Ryan's silent introspection. One was soft and fairly aristocratic, with an almost musical tone to it; or a whisper of accent Ryan couldn't place.

The other was classic eastern accent, not unlike the voices Ryan would expect to hear back home. He raised his head out of his hands, half curious and half annoyed by the interruption.

A painfully thin old man in a slate grey slacks and a matching suit coat was making his way up the park. At his heel followed a heavyset man in jeans and a polo shirt. The thin man was talking nonstop about something, Ryan couldn't make out. Something about art, or politics, or maybe both. It didn't matter.

The heavyset fellow panted behind, trying to keep up, periodically wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief he pulled from his back pocket. Both men had similar features, especially the blue eyes and hawk-like nose.

The thin man was ranting in an animated way. "But then I told Wesley he was a fool for thinking that an unscripted line would be worth more than a few thousand. The man's an idiot, to be sure, but he knows how to wrap aldermen around his wrist like a cheap watch," the thin man remarked as he lightly ascended the steps.

His stout companion put a hand on the guardrail beside Ryan, pausing to catch his breath. "Hey," he panted breathlessly, "wait up…" His words were more a breathy whisper.

The thin man never looked back. He bounded easily up the stairs, continuing his tirade about whoever Wesley was. A few more steps, and he was gone from sight, leaving the garden and his companion behind.

The man leaning on the guardrail wiped his face and looked sadly in the direction the thin man had gone. He glanced at Ryan, gave an exhausted and apologetic smile, then started up the stairs. He only made it a few steps before his head snapped up like a dog's. He looked back at Ryan, took another step up while looking over his shoulder, and paused.

Ryan did not enjoy the man's eyes on him. He scowled, and folded his arms across his chest. _What do you want?_ he asked with his eyes.

The stout man took one last look up the stairs, then clumped heavily back down. "Hey! Hey you!"

Ryan gestured to himself. He glanced around hoping there might be someone else this man was talking to. Alas, he was the only one in sight. He pursed his lips. "Me?"

"Yeah, you," the man replied. He pointed a thick finger at Ryan. "You on the bench." He walked, perhaps waddled, over to Ryan and sat down on the opposite end of the bench. "Yeah, did anyone ever tell you that you look just like my dad? Well, not my _dad_ dad, my dad's husband. I call him Pop-pop."

Ryan pressed himself as far against the other end of the bench as he could. "No," he replied curtly. "No one's said that at all. Look, I should get going." He started to rise.

The stout man shook his head. "Hey, don't leave. I'm telling ya you do. You look just like him, well with longer hair and it's black, and you're a lot younger… but anyhow yeah: you look just like him. Here!" The man reached into his wallet and fished out a photo. He held it out to Ryan.

Ryan recoiled slightly, lip curling in a sneer.

"C'mon," the man prodded. "It's a photo, not a snake."

 _Fine_ , Ryan thought. Expression surly, he reached out and gingerly took the photo from the man's hand.

The face looking back at him might as well have been his own. Well, his own in twenty years. The same jawline and cheekbones, same deep eyes, except the man in the photo had brown eyes instead of hazel.

"Tell me that doesn't look like you! Why, it's uncanny ain't it? Weird coincidence and all, but I thought you'd get a kick out of it." The man made a grabbing motion, and Ryan passed the photo back in stunned silence. The man stuffed it unceremoniously into his wallet and pushed himself heavily to his feet. "Well, I probably better get going now. Nice to meetcha. Great chatting with you by the way."

He started up the stairs.

"Wait," Ryan croaked, finally able to find his voice. "Where are you going?"

The man paused. "Oh, me and my dad are staying at the Aqua Tower, right up there." He gestured to the street above. "I tried to get him to join me for drinks, they got a great bar, but he'd rather talk some business stuff with some guy." The man shrugged. "It's all over my head, I tell you. Like the top of that tower over my head. So, I'm gonna sit at the bar. Maybe make friends with a girl named 'Martini,' and olive her friends." The man grinned. "Get it? _Olive_ her friends? _All of_ her friends?" He laughed at his own joke.

Ryan didn't find it particularly funny, or clever. He folded his arms tighter across his chest. "Huh," he grunted.

"Hey? You seem pretty cool! You should join me there! You're a great conservationist, and I'm loving this chat."

"'Conversationalist,'" Ryan corrected.

The man snapped his fingers. "See? That, right there! You're smart like my dads. We should hang out. Come on, my name's Larry. Larry Burns. I'll buy ya a round and we can put it on my dad's tab. Unless you've got someplace to go or something."

Ryan stared into Larry's blithely innocent face. The man was either already drunk… or an idiot. Ryan wasn't sure which. But that photo! There resemblance was uncanny. At the very least, he'd be able to use that fake ID he'd gotten from Mitty, get a drink or two, and dig for information.

Finding his father had never been something Ryan wanted to do. Since childhood he swore he'd never give the man who abandoned his mother a moment of his time. This, well, this was different, right? It wasn't like he was searching out information on his father. Hell, the guy in the photo couldn't be his father anyhow. He must be ancient by now if he had a son as old as Larry.

 _He's not my dad, so it'll all be okay_ , Ryan reasoned. He looked at Larry as innocently as he could. "One drink, then I should probably be going."

Larry reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit! You're not going to regret this!"

"I hope not," Ryan replied honestly. He stood up, brushed himself off, and dropped into step beside Larry.

"So what's your name anyhow?" Larry asked as they made their way up to the street level.

"Ryan."

"Just Ryan?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Larry shrugged. "Well, most people I met got a last name too. Not Oprah or Prince, but they got funny first names so it's not like they need a last name." Larry's blue eyes regarded Ryan. The man clearly meant no harm, but the expression on his face implied it he would not give up the topic until he got an answer.

Ryan sighed and relented. "Smithers. My last name is Smithers."

Larry paused then laughed. "Hey, that's wild! That's my dad's last name too! What a coincidence. What are the odds I'd meet someone with that last name here? Actually, they're probably pretty good. It's a common last name, like Smith. That's the most common last name in the world. Pretty good odds, right? Hey, but you got me talking too much again. Come on, I'll buy you that drink. Maybe it's fate I find someone who looks like my dad, eh?"

Ryan shrugged. When it came to common last names, he didn't know. Nor did he care. His mind was elsewhere. Coincidence, yes; a random occurrence, of course. But fate? Some sort of grand design? Ryan considered himself agnostic at best. Probably a straight atheist. An idea like "fate" was not something Ryan put much stock in.

* * *

Ryan followed Larry wordlessly. The man had lapsed into a merciful silence. It seemed like anything Larry thought, he said. Ryan surmised the man must've been born without a filter between his mind and his mouth.

For a quiet person like Ryan, it was a bit much. If he hadn't been so curious about the photo he never would've stomached Larry's company. _That photo_ , he thought, _it looks like me_. But that doesn't mean anything. There was some guy on the internet who looked like a famous singer. The singer's name was Timberlake. The man called himself "Timberfake," and enjoyed pretending to be a celebrity. Or something like that. Ryan wasn't sure.

Along with ideas like fate, celebrities were not something Ryan was interested in.

Larry paused at the top of the stairs, then crossed a busy street and followed the sidewalk left. Ryan found the man's rolling gait to be surprisingly brisk on level ground. Apparently, Larry's bulk only slowed him down on the stairs. Ryan quickened his stride.

"Where are we going?" he asked, coming to beside Larry.

"Blu," replied Larry. "Me and my dad are staying there. He got himself a real nice room here at the hotel. He got one for me, but it's not as nice as his. Still, a place to stay is a place to stay, right? Beats sleeping underground." He pointed to a ramp in the street, a part of the road itself. It cut down under the avenue they walked along.

Ryan paused, and peered over the edge. "There's another street below us?"

Larry laughed. "There's like two levels below us! We're walking on the upper crust of society, literally. Feels pretty swanky when you think about it that way."

They came to an intersection, and Ryan paused at the crosswalk.

Larry tugged his arm. "No, we're turning here. That place. See?"

Ryan resisted the urge to pull away from Larry's touch. The gesture had been innocent enough, but he didn't like it. He took a polite step back, and looked in the direction Larry was pointing.

In the sea of towering buildings, one stuck out among the rest. The building had an oddly graceful and layered look, unique from the surrounding buildings. Gleaming white balconies, sculpted in curves extended at different lengths from its side. In some areas, there were none, the reflective window glass creating the illusion of pools. It had a very organic nature.

The tower reminded Ryan of a paper sculpture, rather than a tower of glass, concrete, and steel. The very aesthetic appealed to Ryan's love of nature and urban. A blend of the two that he'd never seen before. He stood, as if transfixed by the sheer artistry.

"Yeah, funny looking isn't it," Larry observed.

Ryan shook his head. "No. It's beautiful." He looked at Larry for affirmation.

Larry raised a single eyebrow and shook his head. "Whatever you say, Ryan. Different strokes for different folks, I guess." He resumed walking. "My dad's got himself a room, it's bigger than my house! I mean, the man's rich. He's got himself a walk in mailbox at home, and I think his place comes with its own zip code. It's the biggest house on Mammon Drive. You can't miss it. Me? I'm tryin' to learn the family business."

"So you're staying here?"

Larry nodded as they approached the lobby. "Yeah, but I just got a basic room. My dad said he'd make sure I had a room, but it's about the size of the closest in his. That's okay. It might be smaller than my house, but it's probably nicer, right? I mean, my house is so small the front door and the back door are on the same hinge!"

Ryan made a face. "That doesn't even make sense."

"It's a joke. I kid! But seriously, my wipe dropped a towel the other day, and it was like wall to wall carpet! Small, I tell ya. Real small."

Ryan was beginning to regret accepting Larry's offer for drinks. He wasn't sure how much longer he could stomach the terrible jokes. If it wasn't for that photo, he wouldn't still be talking to the man. He followed Larry down to a spacious sunken patio at the foot of the tower that opened into a bar through a wide entryway. A sliding door was set recessed into a slot at the end. The sounds of the street above followed him in.

The bar itself was significantly more upscale than anything Ryan had ever seen; not that, being underage, he'd been to many bars anyhow. The floor was a swirled pattern of black and white mosaic tiles. A row of spacious booths lined one wall, wide and inviting. The tables themselves were glass-topped, and filled inside with golden lightbulbs.

There was a central row of high-top tables, with gleaming silver chairs spaced at even intervals.

The bar itself went for a minimalist modern-art design. The back was angled tiles, jutting from the walls in a way that looked decidedly futuristic. Not overdone, not like science fiction, but very modern. The room itself was not overly bright. Most of the illumination came indirectly from under-lighting at the floor level. A few amber glass lamps hung from the ceiling, but they provided as much for atmosphere as illumination.

Larry sidled up to the bar and hefted himself into one of the chairs.

Ryan sat down next to him. His heart beating faster than normal. The sign by the entrance made it perfectly clear that people less than twenty-one were not to be in this establishment. He tried to look natural, and hoped his fake ID worked.

Larry ordered a beer, and grinned when it came.

The bartender asked Ryan what he wanted.

The young man froze.

Larry peered at him curiously. "What, cat got your tongue? You were downright chatty all afternoon."

"No I wasn't," Ryan snapped back.

Larry shrugged. "He'll have a gin and tonic."

The bartender smiled in a patronizing way. "And _I'll_ need to see some ID."

Ryan fished out his wallet and handed the man the license Mitty had made. Ryan Smithers. Twenty-two years old. From Pennsylvania. His stomach was beginning to tie itself into a knot.

The bartender gave Ryan's identification a thorough look-over, then shrugged and handed it back to him. Ryan breathed a sigh of relieve, the tension in his guts relaxing.

"How come you didn't card me?" Larry asked, grinning.

The bartender gave him a patient look. Clearly, this wasn't the first time Larry had asked that recently. "I'm fairly certain, sir, that you're at least of age."

Larry ran a stubby hand through his grey hair. "Yeah, maybe. But what about my ego?"

"Would it make you feel better if I looked at your ID?"

Larry shrugged. "Nah. You don't need to."

The bartender gave him a smile, the forced pleasantries of one who had grown tired of Larry's antics some time ago. Ryan could sympathize. His gin and tonic arrived, and he sipped it tentatively. It was tart, refreshing, rather bitter but in a good way. He decided, right then, that he liked gin and tonics. Larry was busy looking over a food menu. Eventually he settled on a plate of fried calamari. "You like calamari?"

Ryan had to admit he'd never had it.

Larry assured him he'd love it.

Ryan poked at the lime in his drink with a straw, and mulled over his words. He tended to be a very frank individual. No one would ever accuse Ryan of beating around the proverbial bush when it came to addressing an issue. On the flip side, he'd learned that sometimes, patience and tact had a place as well. He was burning to ask Larry to tell him more about the man in the photo. Torn between the need for answers, and the desire to broach the topic carefully.

Finally, he relented. "So, Larry, tell me about your dad."

It turned out to be easier than Ryan expected.

Getting Larry to talk was like putting butter on bread. The calamari arrived and Larry happily rambled on. Unfortunately, he had the unpleasant habit of talking with his mouth full, but Ryan got the gist.

Larry lived out east. He admitted to having a wife and two kids, and a rich father who lived out east. "My dad's a sweet guy, a real pussycat," Larry crowed between mouthfuls. "He takes care of us all real good-like."

"I thought you said he had a swanky room for himself, and a small one for yourself."

Larry rolled his shoulders. "Yeah, but so what? I mean, it's not like we're equals or anything."

Ryan thought of his own mother, and his shoulders stiffened. Throughout everything, she'd always made sure Ryan was taken care of at least as well as she took care of herself. Ryan and his mother? They'd been a team. He looked out for her, and she looked out for him. That was how it was supposed to be. And now? No one was looking out for him anymore. Ryan felt a hot ball of sorrow lodge in his throat. He was alone. He took a sip of his gin and tonic, and tried to wash the feeling away. Why did it always catch him like that?

Ryan realized the endless drone of Larry's chatter had gone silent. He looked up.

Larry was looking at him, blue eyes gentle and concerned. "You okay?" Larry asked.

Ryan nodded with as much conviction as he could muster. "I'm fine. But I'm confused. You said you had two dads?"

Larry's eyes brightened. "Yeah! Ain't that a piece of work! See my dad, Pop, he had this guy who worked for him. He treated him nice enough. Almost as good as he treats me. Then, last summer, they got married." Larry laughed. "Who've thunk it? I go from having no mom and no dad to having two dads." He stuffed another calamari ring in his mouth. "Just goes to show you that life can be unpredictable."

Ryan's mind was temporarily distracted from the photo. "No mom?" he repeated.

"Yeah. I grew up in an orphanage. Pop told me he loved my mom, but her parents didn't want a scandal, so they sent her to a convent and me to the orphanage. Nice people, right?" He paused, then flagged the bartender down for a second beer. "But then one day, I see this guy on a train, and he looks just like the old photo of my father that they'd sent me to the orphanage with. Right. See, they said my parents were both dead, but then there's this guy who looks like my dad and he's very much alive."

Larry fished a second photo out of his wallet. It was a sepia print, a much younger version of the man Larry had been huffing along behind just a few short hours ago.

"He was there with this guy," Larry removed the now-familiar photo of the man with spikey grey hair and round-rimmed glasses. "And this guy was halfway in the bottle. But he's not usually like that. He drinks less than I do."

Larry set the two pictures on the bar top and slid them over to Ryan.

"Anyhow, so I guess they're you know, that sort of people. They got married. Me and my wife and kids came out for the wedding. It was really nice. They had good food, and I got to see my old buddy Homer again. So it was good."

The polished stone bar was as good as a mirror. Ryan looked at his face, side by side with the man in the photograph. They could've practically been brothers… or father and son.

"What did you say his name was again?" Ryan asked, tapping the photo.

"Oh, Pop-pop? His name's Waylon Smithers. He worked for my dad, and then I guess things just kinda happened between them. Weird to me, but I don't ask questions." Larry scooped up the photos. "I probably wouldn't understand the answers anyway." He folded them back into his wallet.

The ice had mostly melted in Ryan's gin and tonic. He didn't mind. He'd never been drinking before aside from sips of beer he'd shared with Mitty. This was different, stronger. He didn't want to make a fool of himself. Ryan savored his mostly-water gin and tonic, prodded the now mushy lime thoughtfully.

"Your dads… what do they do?"

"Well, Pop runs a nuclear power plant in Springfield, North Tacoma. Pop-pop worked for him, but now they're both running the plant." Larry puffed his chest with pride. "My family's been running nuclear power plants since my great-grandfather Wainwright. It's in my blood. I'm hoping to take over the family business someday. That's why I was out here. Meeting with people and getting cultured." Larry chuckled. "Heh, cultured. Like yogurt." He put up a hand. "Hey, barkeep, how about another round over here?"

Ryan glanced at Larry's glass. It was empty already. Hadn't the man just ordered a refill moments ago? Before he could even object, Ryan's glass was whisked away, and a fresh drink put in front of him. Not wanting to seem rude, or like an amateur, he took a sip.


	4. Chapter 4

Charles Montgomery Burns rested his head in his hand. Damn it all, his son was supposed to meet him for dinner at Filini, the restaurant on the second level of the hotel. Technically, since the bar downstairs was also called Filini, it stood to reason that his brilliant son would've gone there instead.

 _God, if I wasn't already grey_ … Burns groaned to himself.

It wasn't that he hated Larry. Quite the contrary, he felt a sort of bond with the man. But trying to bring Larry to a level where he could simply act presentable was like trying to drain the ocean with a teaspoon; or teach physics to a baboon.

Burns drummed his fingers on the table top. He'd stop by Larry's room, then search the bar.

If Larry wasn't there either, well, that complicated things.

As if they weren't already complicated enough. Burns was not a man comfortable with feelings. His sense of paternal ownership was constantly at odds with his utter embarrassment from Larry's lack of sophistication. It would've been easier to send him away, and never speak to him again… but that had ultimately caused more problems than it solved.

It seemed to Burns, that Larry had become a part of his life; and that would not change.

Do you really want it to?

 _I don't know_ , Burns replied in his own mind. _Maybe I don't. But I can't leave the plant to him, not the way he is now. I don't think he'll ever change_.

Maybe he's not the one.

Burns snorted. _Well, who else? There is no one else_.

There's always other options.

Burns gritted his teeth. Here he was, arguing with the voice in his own head like a madman. _There are no other options. Now shut up damn you._ The voice, mercifully, fell silent. He slipped his suit coat over his shoulders, straightened his tie, and took the elevator down to the lobby level.

The doors polished brass doors opened into the modern deco lobby, all fine edges, and shades of golden brown. A fireplace ran the entire length of the wall, but in the hot afternoon the burners were off.

Burns strode purposefully down to the bar. He hadn't even bothered to check Larry's room. He knew the man. A simpleton who enjoyed his booze. The odds of Larry being anywhere but the bar were slim to none.

As usual, his assessment of people proved correct.

Larry was sitting, his ample posterior wedged into a silver seat far too small. He looked like one of those Russian bears on a tiny circus chair. Beside him sat a thin man. Burns couldn't see the man's face, only the wavy black hair gelled into spikes, a few longer tendrils curling about his ears.

Of course he'd find himself some boorish oaf to coddle up to. Trying to integrate Larry into high society was proving to be fruitless indeed.

Moving quiet as a shadow, Montgomery Burns slid through the crowds in the dim light. Mood lighting, so called it. Burns didn't care. To him, it may as well have been daylight. He came up beside Larry, on the opposite side of the other patron, and silently sank his fingers into the tender meat of Larry's shoulder. Right by the neck.

Larry gave a yelp and recoiled back, a hand colliding with his beer.

The man beside him deftly caught it, preventing a spill and a scene.

"My dear son," Burns said softly, menacingly, "did you forget we had dinner plans tonight?" He regarded Larry's empty plate with placid contempt.

Larry wriggled in his grasp like a fish on a line. "I… gee… Pop I'm sorry. I meant to. I completely meant to, but I got distracted." Burns did not lessen his grip.

"Distracted now? Has anyone taken the time, to explain how critical a value timeliness is at the upper echelons of humanity? Our ability to keep a schedule is what separates man from dumb beast." He curled his lips in a not-so-friendly smile. "You're not some dumb beast, are you my son?"

* * *

Ryan watched Larry flounder, struggle for words. He couldn't see the face of the man at Larry's shoulder, but the lilting sibilant tone made his skin crawl. The voice was hardly angry, and that made it all the more menacing.

Ryan decided, right then, that he did not like Larry's father; this Mister Burns.

* * *

"It's not my fault," Larry protested. He gestured across his body. "I bumped into this guy, here, and we got talking. I didn't mean to stop, but he looks just like Pop-pop!"

Burns rolled his eyes. "That's the trouble with being uneducated, Larry. You'll see famous people everywhere. Today, Smithers, tomorrow Edna Pruviance-"

("-I have no idea who that is!")

"If you're not careful, you'll wind up inundated by the trappings of imaginary celebrities, and then what? Madness and delusion. I'll have none of it." Burns tightened his grip, causing Larry to flinch and twist his neck.

"No, I'm serious Pop!" Larry reached out with his free hand and grabbed the labels of his companion. "Look!" Larry implored, hauling Ryan forward onto the bar.

"Hey!" the dark-haired man objected.

Burns raised his eyes, expecting to be unimpressed. A pair of hazel eyes, wide and young, stared back at him.

Burns dropped his hand from Larry's shoulder. Involuntarily, he cupped it to his mouth. "No," he whispered softly. He felt the blood drain from his face. Those eyes, the color, the expression, the intelligence behind them. It was as if the past itself had ripped free from history, and sunk its talons into his chest. Memories he thought he'd buried erupted forth, bringing a flood of emotions with them. "No," he muttered again, voice trailing off. "It can't be. It's not you…"

(Ryan and Larry exchanged a confused look.)

Burns bit down on his thumbnail and struggled to regain himself.

"Yeah," Larry interjected, breaking the spell. "This is Ryan Smithers." He glanced apprehensively from Burns to Ryan. "Uhm, Ryan, this is my dad: Montgomery Burns."

Burns couldn't tear himself away. Those eyes, they may as well have been the same ones that watched him so keenly over forty years ago. Their owner stared back, unflinching.

Damn you, Burns thought, shock turning to rage. He straightened his back to his full height, and looked down upon his son and the interloper. He pointed a finger, claw-like, at Ryan's chest. "Boy, I don't know what puerile endeavor you've sought, or who you pretend to be, but I'm telling you now, your subversive attempts to torment me will fail. You are nothing to me, not even a ghost. I wash my hands of you further."

Burns sank his fingers into Larry's neck. "Come on, _son_ , we are going. Barkeeper, put their consumptions on my room charge, except for the boy's there."

Larry gave Ryan an apologetic look, then turned his attention to Burns. "Come on, Pop! Doesn't he look just like him?"

Burns directed Larry to the stairs. "He doesn't look like either one. Any chance of something more than a passing semblance is pure malarkey. The idea that there's something more? Impossible. It can't be, and I won't have you ever speak of this further; I forbid it. Now move!"

* * *

Ryan sat alone at the bar, watching the two men disappear out of sight. He pulled a twenty out of his wallet, and set it on the bar, not looking away from the steps. The way that man had treated his son made him sick inside. _If Larry considers that_ good _treatment, I wonder what passes for abuse_.

It was all strange though. It wasn't making sense to him.

When his eyes had met with that Burns fellow, something had happened.

 _It scared him_ , Ryan thought slowly. _Whatever he saw, he's terrified of it. Of me…_

Coincidence be damned. It was way more than that now.

Ryan's mind was full as he made his way down the strip, back to his motorcycle. He'd find a place to rest for the night, then tomorrow, he would be hitting the road. But not following the route he'd originally planned. No. Route 66 had been there nearly a hundred years. It could wait a little longer. First thing tomorrow, he'd set out for North Tacoma: specifically, Springfield.

If there were answers there Ryan would not rest till he found them.

* * *

FINAL VERSE... for now.

 _I didn't go to the moon, I went much further – for time is the longest distance between two places. Not long after that I was fired for writing a poem on the lid of a shoe-box. I left Saint Louis. I descended the steps of this fire escape for the last time and followed, from then on, in my father's footsteps, attempting to find in motion was lost in space. I traveled around a great deal. The cities swept about me like dead leaves, leaves that were brightly colored but torn away from the branches. I would have stopped, but I was pursued by something. It always came upon me unawares, taking me altogether by surprise. Perhaps it was a familiar bit of music. Perhaps it was only a piece of transparent glass. Perhaps I am walking along a street at night, in some strange city, before I have found companions. I pass the lighted window of a shop where perfume is sold. The window is filled with pieces of colored glass, tiny transparent bottles in delicate colors, like bits of a shattered rainbow. Then all at once my sister touches me shoulder. I turn around and look into her eyes. Oh, Laura, Laura, I tried to leave you behind me, but I am more faithful than I intended to be! I reach for a cigarette, I cross the street, I run into the movies or a bar, I buy a drink, I speak to the nearest stranger – anything that can blow your candles out._

 _For nowadays the world is lit by lightning! Blow out your candles, Laura – and so goodbye…_

"Tom's monologue." _The Glass Menagerie_. Tennessee Williams 1945


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes:**

I'd wanted to use Ryan Smithers in an upcoming story, but before I really got a chance to ask Gav-Imp if that was okay, she'd already asked if I could do this piece for her. I did so gladly. She's given me some amazing artwork from my other stories. It was my pleasure to return the favor.

The tone of this story was taken a great deal from some of my own thoughts. I've driven from one end of this country to the other, and back again, multiple times. Occasionally I've been able to take it leisurely, sometimes I've got a timetable to keep; and there have been a few times I've felt as if I were chased by nothing more than my own restless thoughts. "The Glass Menagerie" is a great play, for Tom's ending piece alone. I recommend it.

As for the route Ryan takes in this story? Well, anyone could hop on these roads and follow in his footsteps. From the cemetery near the cancer treatment center in Pennsylvania to the Filini Bar at the Aqua Tower, it's all real.

Road trips can sometimes be hard to write, especially with a single traveler. It's a great time for one's own personal reflection, but it can be very boring to relay to another. Writing stories of the road, sometimes it can turn into a list of directions from Mapquest or something: "Turn north on I-55. Get off on I-384." Whatever. Stuff like that. One can fall prey to labeling geography, and completely lose the mood!

This is what I tried, most sincerely to avoid.

Anyone who has ever done a long haul, or rushed to get home to their loved ones after said long-haul knows the road takes on an almost organic feel. There are highways I am nostalgic for. There are others I dread setting tire to. Roads were meant to be driven. The longest drive I ever made was about 2,300 miles straight; one way.

It sure does make the United States seem smaller when you realize how much of it is just an interstate away. All I have to do is hop on a transcontinental road, drive, and I can get anywhere. Some places might take a bit longer to get to than others, but that's about it. Travelling by jet is fun, but there's something curative about a long drive. At least there is for Ryan and I.

And what happens when he does arrive in Springfield? Well, that is, I'm afraid, a story for another day.

Thanks for reading. Great to see you again. It's been my pleasure to write this for you all.

~ Muse


End file.
